


Understood

by Deepdarkwaters



Series: Bespoke [8]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Dominance, Established Relationship, Injury Recovery, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7313428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Hart with cabin fever is the very worst kind of Harry Hart. Inactivity bores him stupid, and being bored makes him a fucking bear to live with: he's moody and snappish over the littlest things, easily frustrated. It seems like at least five times a week he strides off to shut himself in his study with his fists clenched and some nasty remark trapped tight behind his pressed lips. On good days, at least. On tough days the words hang in the air behind him when he leaves, waiting to be apologised for later when he calms down.</p><p>On even worse days he's not angry at all. When Merlin comes home from the shop one Tuesday he closes the front door behind himself and Harry's there immediately, reaching for Merlin's belt buckle to unfasten it and draw the leather out from his trouser loops. He folds it in half, hands it to Merlin, and quietly, beseechingly says, "Please."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VioletSmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/gifts).



Harry Hart with cabin fever is the very worst kind of Harry Hart. Inactivity bores him stupid, and being bored makes him a fucking bear to live with: he's moody and snappish over the littlest things, easily frustrated. It seems like at least five times a week he strides off to shut himself in his study with his fists clenched and some nasty remark trapped tight behind his pressed lips. On good days, at least. On tough days the words hang in the air behind him when he leaves, waiting to be apologised for later when he calms down.

On even worse days he's not angry at all. When Merlin comes home from the shop one Tuesday he closes the front door behind himself and Harry's there immediately, reaching for Merlin's belt buckle to unfasten it and draw the leather out from his trouser loops. He folds it in half, hands it to Merlin, and quietly, beseechingly says, "Please."

A year ago he would have done it, but a year ago Harry wasn't recovering from losing to a maniac with a gun and a mindfuck machine. "Harry, no," Merlin says gently, taking the belt from him and starting to thread it back around his waist. "That's really not what you need."

The anger comes then, quick and fierce like the snap of lightning. His accent sounds even more refined when he's furious somehow, as bright and sharp as needles. "How fucking dare you tell me what I need? How do you know what I need?"

"Thirty years of giving it to you might have something to do with it," Merlin reminds him wryly. He finds Harry's hand, runs gentle fingers over the tight ball of his fist and his whitened knuckles until he calms down a notch. "Come here," he says, soft, soothing, slipping one arm around Harry's body and letting the other hand rest on the back of his neck on the spot he always touches when he's easing Harry down from a high. For a moment it seems like Harry's not happy about that, standing stiff and miserable in the curl of Merlin's arms until his next breath leaves him in a long, slow shudder and he leans his forehead against Merlin's shoulder. "That's it," Merlin murmurs, "there you go. You couldn't even let me take my coat off before you started making silly demands, hm?"

Harry almost laughs at that, a warm breath and a clumsy kiss against Merlin's neck. "I'm sorry. May I help you—"

"Shush," Merlin tells him, voice firm but fingers gentle as he works them up from Harry's nape into the soft curls of his hair, untamed by the usual products while he's stuck here rattling about the house on the mend. "Just let me hug you while your hackles are down."

Harry's arms finally creep around him, hands clutching tightly to the back of Merlin's shoulders. Merlin wishes he'd taken his coat off now – he found out very early on in all of this how tactile Harry is, how much calmer he feels during a tricky mood when there's some soft sensory anchor like Merlin's cashmere jumpers under his stroking fingertips – but it's too late, it's not worth breaking the hug now it's happening. Besides, Harry finds the wool himself when he wriggles one arm between them, sliding his hand around Merlin's waist under his overcoat and sighing at the drag of knit and purl against the bare skin of his arm.

"I realise I've not been especially pleasant to live with lately," he starts, but Merlin interrupts him and uses his now-listen-to-me voice to make sure Harry knows he'd better pay careful attention.

"I'd rather live with you on your worst day than anybody else on their best," he says firmly. "Is that understood?" After a long hesitation Harry nods his head uncertainly, still resting there against Merlin's shoulder, and Merlin prompts, "Didn't quite catch that, sir."

"Understood," Harry says softly, and Merlin rewards him with a touch more pressure of fingers in his hair.

"Understood but not quite believed, I think."

Softer still, a barely-there little whisper that Merlin doubts he'd be able to make out at all if Harry's mouth were anywhere else but right beside his ear: "Some days I find it hard to believe I woke up at all. Every minute feels like I'm dreaming. It's a fucking interminable nightmare."

"At least the bullet didn't damage your capacity for melodrama." That makes Harry smile; Merlin can feel the movement of lips brushing his temple. "I'm not going to slap you awake. Stop skiving your physio sessions. Eat a vegetable occasionally. Stop sneaking out for McDonalds. I can't do this for you." He wishes he could. Giving Harry everything he wants and needs is the bedrock of their relationship, but there are some things beyond even Merlin's capabilities.

Later in bed, after a long, slow handjob carefully crafted to tire Harry out enough that he won't wake up flailing in the night from a bad dream, Merlin kisses the sweaty limp curls of his hair and says, "I don't like you lingering around like a stale fart in a house full of dead animals."

Harry wriggles in his arms, a fake cock – one Merlin's never seen before, presumably one of Victoria's – still tucked inside him and restricting the number of positions he can comfortably lie in if he intends to sleep with it there. "Perhaps I'll get a puppy."

"Perhaps you won't," Merlin tells him severely, tugging on the cock so it slides out half an inch until Harry laughs, breathing raggedly, and stumbles over an insincere-sounding apology to get Merlin to push it fully back inside. "You'll come to work with me. Make yourself useful between physio and check-ups, help me train the new recruits. Make everyone's tea. Maybe run some of the low-stress missions from the control room."

"Kneel on your office carpet," Harry says sleepily, "unfasten your trousers with my teeth."

"Your last medical report did say your fine motor skills were improved. Is that how you demonstrated it?"

"Doctor-patient confidentiality. I'll never tell." Harry's fingers, resting on Merlin's bare chest, start gently stroking through the fuzz of dark hair there. He craves texture when he's tired: hair under his fingertips; the rough wet velvet of a tongue somewhere on his skin; falling asleep to the sensation of nails digging sharply into his hip or the careful constriction of a rope braceleting his wrist.

Then Merlin says, "Maybe I'll let you watch Gawain's Venice mission," because he's curious to see what happens – to see whether Harry's ready to admit it yet, or he's going to carry on his act of nonchalance. Harry's hand goes still at the suggestion; Merlin would think he's fallen asleep if not for the quivering, careful way he's breathing. For a moment he considers pushing it, asking more questions, delicately prising the truth out of him like a splinter from a fingertip, but it's late and Harry's not the only one who's tired. They've got all the time in the world to talk, but only these few hours of darkness to be quiet, together.

"Goodnight, then," he says eventually, pressing one final kiss into Harry's hair, and Harry resumes his lazy stroking up and down Merlin's breastbone and murmurs it back.

**Author's Note:**

> This is really a three-part thing, but the next two happen later and I want the series to go chronologically instead of hopping all over the timeline so... continuation to follow soon!


End file.
